


Genesis

by finches



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Body Horror, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 12:28:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21631249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finches/pseuds/finches
Summary: “Dismas.” This time it tumbles across the plains, a breeze that pushes its way gently across the grass, and Dismas rubs his eyes and peers up at Reynauld's -- well, at least where he thinks a human head ought to have been.“Dismas. You promised.” The words roll and fall, weighted, at his feet. "I am... sorry. It is done."---An incredibly loose angel/demon AU, exploring Dismas' and Reynauld's relationship over the years.
Relationships: Dismas/Reynauld (Darkest Dungeon)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	Genesis

* * * 

It had, in all of their terrible and tumultuous years together, happened once, and only once.

It was a miserly ordeal, looking back on it. Dismas had tried to evade him by any means possible — crossing through the most remote parts of the earth, slipping through the crowds at Times Square during the day; even, at one point, desperate enough to walk from Amsterdam to Enniscrone along the ocean floor — and yet Reynauld, at the end of the day, had still found him, like he’d always had.

When he had finally caught up to him, trying to cross the entire length of the English countryside on a shoddy old motorbike he’d found on the side of the road, he’d had the damn gall to apologise, and Dismas had wept, pathetically, because by Satan he was tired — and as much as he’d hate to admit it, being crucified alive by a fiery death sword did hurt, a lot.

“Dismas,” Reynauld had said, gently, like he was reprimanding a child, and Dismas couldn’t help burying his head in his hands as they stopped at the side of the road and his shoulders started to shake.

“I don’t —,” it’s not long before he can barely see Reynauld’s body splitting apart and growing new limbs, between his tears. “I didn’t, I’m sorry, I — don’t want to die. I didn’t mean it. Good grief. I didn’t — I didn’t —”

In the back of his mind, he wonders what Reynauld thinks of him, but — well. It didn’t matter, really, when he’s faced with a ghastly monstrosity of a being, with all of its eyes blinking wetly; all three of its gigantic slobbering heads crowned by rings of fire as it towers over him.

“Dismas.” This time it tumbles across the plains, a breeze that pushes its way gently across the grass, and Dismas rubs his eyes and peers up at Reynauld's -- well, at least where he thinks a human head ought to have been.

“Dismas. You promised.” The words roll and fall, weighted, at his feet. "I am... sorry. It is done."

“I know, old boy, I know,” he whimpers, and he almost feels sorry for himself, “I know. But by god, I’m an old ma — devil. We’re both old dogs. I don’t want to do this anymore. It’s just the same thing. Think about it, we’ll be doing the same thing a century or two from now, and it’ll never end.”

Reynauld is quiet as all of his eyes survey him. There’s nothing given away in his demeanour; and Dismas is still looking up, watching as his halo burns mercilessly against the sun. When, finally, Reynauld moves to take a sudden step closer to him, Dismas reflexively takes a step back: even for him, the stench of burning flesh made him want to wretch into his neckerchief.

“Dismas. Penitent thief.” Reynauld says again, but this time it feels like a death rattle; something that shakes Dismas to his very bones and grasps them tight, and it makes Dismas shake with an animalistic fear that he'd forgotten in his complacency -- this was Reynauld as he’d known him all those years ago, as a messenger of his God; a weapon honed through centuries of bloodshed and unrestrained violence. “Do not attempt to coerce me. Wicked —," and Dismas, stupidly, starts babbling uncontrollably out of fear, because it was either that, or screaming.

“Ah, so I was close, eh? Well, you know, it was a bit of a shot in the dark, but I’d like to think I at least knew you well enough to —“

“I live and die by His word, Dismas.” And there it is: when it came down to the line, he was still, in all of his unmoving apathy, still devoted to Him. Not that Dismas was surprised, really — but, maybe, a small part of him had been hoping otherwise.

“There is no compromise, and no fault. If it is with regret -- so be it.” And before Dismas could blink, there’s the flaming sword in Reynauld’s hands, and his question dead on his tongue as his head was reamed from his neck.

* * *

“Do you even know what regret is, Reynauld?”

They’re sitting in a tavern, side by side, when Reynauld looks across at him, then looks away. “No.”

Dismas snorts into his drink. “Of course you don’t.” And Reynauld didn't really have an objection to that, so they both fall silent, knees knocking together in a show of truce. It was late enough that the candles had burnt low in their holders behind the bar; the light flickering gently against Reynauld's plate armour, and the chatter behind them had died down as people retired to their homes for the night. A bartender tended to the dirty mugs behind the counter a small distance away from them, blatantly eavesdropping on their conversation. 

Of course, Dismas knows that that wasn't entirely true: the evidence had slowly -- painfully slowly -- started to point toward the contrary lately; that Reynauld, in all his steadfast stoicism, is entirely capable of change. It was certainly nothing monumental, but it was definitely there, in his quiet apologies and muttered prayers; perhaps it wasn't entirely _regret_, per se, but it was definitely a very human _feeling_. And Dismas didn't really want to think about what that meant, which was probably for the best -- thinking wasn’t really his strong suit, and anyway, as soon as the words had formed in his mind, Reynauld whistles at the bartender to get his attention, which makes Dismas nearly fall off of his stool.

“What —,” Dismas chokes, “What the hell was that?”

Reynauld signals for another drink before turning back to him, tilting his head slightly toward Dismas. “Hmm?”

“You — this —,” Dismas gesticulates wildly, almost knocking over his fresh drink and earning himself a glare from the bartender. “How— what? _How do you even know how to do that?”_

“It’s just whistling,” he says, in a tone that Dismas would definitely call _smug, _except smugness wasn’t exactly the pinnacle of virtuosity and a Holy Messenger Of God would never admit to gloating, so he writes it off as judgemental, instead.

“It’s the goddamned Devil’s work, is what it is,” mutters Dismas, but it’s mostly just jealousy at the fact that Reynauld — stoic, virtuous, unchanging Reynauld _— _had learnt to whistle before him.

“Well," Reynauld says, "I can teach you, if you'd like." And before Dismas can question him how exactly he’d go about doing that, Reynauld’s mouth quirks into a tiny smile, and Dismas swallows his stupid argument-for-argument’s-sake because the little crow’s feet that appear at the corner of Reynauld’s eyes almost makes him think he’d be perfectly fine being cleaved limb from limb by Uriel again if it meant he could see —

* * *

Well, that was a terrible and stupid notion, and Dismas would be the first to admit it.

It wasn’t just the nature of their relationship that made him think this — a tenuous friendship between an Angel and a Demon was, no doubt, already a terrible comedy within itself -- but it was clearly also stupid, and dangerous, because there'd been enough signs from Reynauld for even an absolute moron like himself to understand; that this could, perhaps, be more than just circumstance. And that had given Dismas enough headaches that he'd purposefully decided to indulge in _sleeping_, in his time on Earth, just to get away from all of his pesky thoughts on the matter.

And it all would have gone swimmingly well, really, if it hadn't happened -- during one of his self imposed exiles, no less, where he’d fucked off to the most secluded town he could find at the time; and found himself a tiny shack of a home on the border of Denmark and Sweden that he’d slowly grown fond of over the years.

Or, well, he had thought it to be secluded, until he walked into his tiny kitchen one summer morning, wearing nothing but his pants, and had found Reynauld sitting at his kitchen table.

“Dismas,” he says, by way of greeting, and Dismas had rolled his eyes at him.

“What’sit now?” He grumbles, because he had just woken up and was not in the mood to entertain another Holy Message From Above. He just wanted to go back to sleep.

Reynauld hums; scratches at the back of his neck. “I was wondering where you’d gotten to," he says, which makes Dismas snort, because Reynauld was a terrible liar.

“Well,” Dismas grumbles, “you're here, now, so it doesn’t matter.” He could already feel a headache coming on, so he wobbles into the kitchen and gropes around his liquor cabinet — which he finds, disappointingly, dry -- and he was just about to announce his displeasure at Reynauld when he hears him sigh.

"Put some trousers on, Dismas. You're... indecent."

Dismas groans and turns around to face him. "_I'm _the indecent one, eh? Bloody hell. You're the one who's broken into my home." He rubs at his temples, and then announces, "I'm going back to bed," which makes Reynauld tilt his head at him in confusion.

"Why?"

"Oh, for -- I'm going to sleep. This is all -- fuck me, Reynauld. At least set my lawn on fire or something next time, if you're going to show up."

"Sleep?"

Dismas grunts. "Aye, sleep." He's moving back down the hallway, towards the direction of his bedroom, before he realises Reynauld has gotten up from his seat and is trailing behind him.

"What's sleep?" and this makes Dismas pause in his tracks and exhale loudly.

"Satan's balls, Reynauld. You should at least pretend to care." They've reached the bedroom, and Reynauld leans against the doorframe as he watches Dismas collapse into the crooked single bed at the opposite corner of the room.

"Show me, then?"

Dismas snorts into his pillow. "It'll be absolutely riveting, don't you worry about that, love," and he almost passes out before he feels a weight sinking into the side of the mattress, and he turns to see Reynauld laying down stiffly, shoes and all, on the edge of his bed.

"What are you --" Dismas starts, before he's thinking, well, maybe it couldn't hurt -- so he scoots himself over to allow Reynauld a bit more space as his bedframe squeaks in protest. They lay like this for a while, awkwardly fit against one another in silence, before Reynauld speaks up again.

"So... What now?"

Dismas laughs humourlessly into his pillow. "That's it."

“Oh.” Reynauld shifts against him, finally relaxing when Dismas places an arm on his shoulder in annoyance.

“Stop moving, old boy. It’s supposed to be relaxing.”

“And how long do they do this for?”

“Uh, well.” Dismas scratches his chin, then stifles a yawn with one hand. “Maybe a few hours?”

Reynauld turns to face him. “How long is that?”

“Fuck, Reynauld.” He shifts so that they’re facing each other. “You really don’t give a shit, do you?”

Reynauld shrugs. “It doesn’t concern us,” he says, nonchalantly — but then in one fluid motion he’s pulled closer to Dismas and has put an arm around his waist; and it slowly dawns on Dismas that perhaps he’d known all along, and _he_ was the one being played for a fool.  
And, of course — he’d almost gone and ruined everything by reflexively taking a hard swing at Reynauld’s face with his fist.

“Fuck,” he curses, “fuck y -- you can’t just do that to a man, hey,” and he’s trying to cover up how fast his heart is beating, but his voice shakes with ten centuries of pent up emotion — “fuck, come on — at least warn me next time, mate.” He’s too embarrassed to look Reynauld in the eyes, instead choosing to bury his face into Reynauld’s shoulder, who, to his credit, looked about as affected by Dismas’ aggrandisement as a cobblestone wall.

"Relax," Reynauld intones, and Dismas is certain he's just messing with him now, so he steadies his breath against Reynauld's chest and then - slowly, hesitantly, rubs at Reynauld's chest, and Reynauld closes his eyes and hums contentedly. And despite the insistent throbbing in Dismas's head, he drifts off to sleep quickly; Reynauld's hands pressed pleasantly against his back.

The next morning, Reynauld was nowhere to be seen -- but the twenty boxes of piss-poor beer that Dismas finds sitting on his kitchen bench more than entirely makes up for it.

* * *

It wasn't the first time things had turned out like this, for the both of them.

There'd been plenty of heralds and prophets from either side over the millennia, with all of them fairly certain that This Would Definitely Be The End Of The World, and none of them had been correct. Well, not yet, anyway; but Dismas thinks it's still probably in his best interests to have a back up plan, which is why he's standing beside an innocuous road sign on a deserted street, waiting for Reynauld.

He's checking his watch -- 02:00 am -- when there's a quiet _snap_ next to him, like the sound of ice breaking, and Reynauld materialises out of the darkness.

"Dismas." There's a hint of confusion in Reynauld's voice, and Dismas tries to quell his own nervousness by clearing his throat -- and maybe its the darkness playing a trick on his eyes, but he's fairly certain Reynauld is wearing one of _his_ jackets, that he'd gifted to him out of embarrassment, because he wouldn't be caught dead with someone that dressed as poorly as Reynauld when he's left to his own devices down here on Earth.

"Reynauld, old boy. It's been a while." He fusses with his jacket, wrapping it closer around himself. "Well -- ah, listen. I've just got something I'd -- well, you know -- just a small thing, really." Reynauld says nothing, just looks directly at him with his dark brown eyes, and Dismas feels his nervousness grow. "I was just -- I was just thinking -- if things really do go south, if you'd be willing to give us a hand -- a, ah -- well. A quick death, you know." He clears his throat again. "That would be lovely, friend."

In the silence that follows, the light buzzes and clicks frantically above them. When finally Reynauld opens his mouth to respond, Dismas, in his agitation, cuts across him impatiently.

"Dismas, I --"

"I'm just asking you for a favour, mate." He's annoyed at himself for showing his hand so early, and now he's desperately trying to backtrack. "No need -- it's -- it's nothing. Forget I asked, then." It may have already occurred to Reynauld that there shouldn't be any particular reason that Dismas would ask him, after all -- he's pretty sure most, if not all, of Reynauld's peers would be perfectly capable of erasing Dismas' existence from the face of the Earth, if he had also asked them nicely. 

But he hadn't, so instead he's standing under the harsh road-lights beside the road in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night, with a part of him wishing Reynauld would eviscerate his entire being right then and there so he wouldn't have to feel the intensity of Reynauld's gaze staring right at him. 

"Let me -- make sure of this." The road light buzzes and flickers above them, briefly pooling them in shadow. "You want me to be the one to kill you. Is this correct?"

"Yeah, alright," Dismas says, pressing his back up defensively against the road light. He can't even look Reynauld in the eyes, instead staring at a point past his head at the road behind him. "No need to -- calm down, mate. It's not a big deal."

"It --," Reynauld pauses before stepping closer, which makes Dismas cross his arms over his chest. "I cannot promise you this."

"Like I said, it's not a big deal," Dismas gripes, waving his hands about, but he's still avoiding looking at Reynauld's face until he steps too close, and is gently acquiescing to him by lowering his head in towards the side of Dismas' neck.

"-- I will try my best," he says, slowly, "but -- I also cannot promise that it will be quick, nor painless."

And that sobers Dismas right up because the idea of somebody — or something — like Reynauld showing a sliver of human compassion scares him to death; and, being the demonic fool he is, he grabs Reynauld by his hands and kisses him.

* * *

Of course, a half-century after Reynauld had sent Dismas back to Hell, they'd met again; this time on the coast of Tasmania during the winter, and Reynauld greets him again like nothing had happened.

And -- despite everything, maybe nothing had really happened. Dismas hadn't hesitated to trudge through fifty year's worth of a positively medieval bureaucratic system just so he could come back to Earth to see Reynauld, and Reynauld --

Well. Maybe they'd both changed, then. Dismas watches Reynauld stretch his legs out on the sand, when he turns his head to face him.

"Where did you even get the sword, anyway, love? Last time -- well. Last time I saw, it was Uriel's bloody play-thing." And not that they would ever admit to _losing _anything, but once Lucifer had noticed Uriel's strange reluctance in summoning the sword, he'd almost immediately taken credit, and the celebratory carnage that had ensued had lasted for decades.

Upon hearing the question, Reynauld immediately turns his head to the side. "What sword?" he says innocently, and it dawns on Dismas that Reynauld was, really, still an absolutely god-awful liar.

"Oh, shite. Oh, my," Dismas exclaims, and he can't stop himself from laughing. "Oh -- you absolute bloody bastard. You perfect, bloody fool." He didn't know whether to laugh or cry at the absurdity of it all, so he does a bit of both. "Where did you learn that -- wait, no. It was definitely all me." In his joy he's grabbed one of Reynauld's hands in his own, and Reynauld is laughing with him. "It was definitely me. It was, wasn't it?"

"Of course it was," Reynauld says, and Dismas thinks he'd be a real sorry bastard if he'd never hear Reynauld's laughter again. "Yes. It was all your fault," and Dismas' shoulders shake with pure, unadulterated joy; because Reynauld -- stoic, virtuous, _moveable _Reynauld -- had stolen Uriel's flaming sword.

They sit like this in the sand, with pressed knees and folded hands, until Dawn splits and softens the two of them in its cold, fiery light.

**Author's Note:**

> Reynauld, after stealing Uriel's sword: *whistles*
> 
> Anyway, I hope this is alright. Baby’s first fic! This is a bit of an underresearched (/unformatted, sorry! I don't have anyone to read my stuff yet ;_;) fic, but I hope it is still palatable. 
> 
> A huge shoutout to The Myth Of Sisyphus by Brigand, which not only really solidified Dismas' character in my head, but also made me go and read the actual book (!!)
> 
> Maybe I'll write more in the future? Maybe not? I do not have social media, so if you have any requests/ideas, maybe here is best.


End file.
